


Red to Green

by chrysanthemumthrone



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Historical Hetalia, M/M, Soviet-Afghan War, sino-soviet split
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-09 05:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17995433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrysanthemumthrone/pseuds/chrysanthemumthrone
Summary: It’s exhaustion that drives Russia to China’s doorstep, sick and bloodied by the Soviet-Afghan war. It’s determination that drives China to fly them both to Vietnam and away from the prying eyes of their governments— still pointing at each other with nuclear arms.





	1. RUNNING

Russia shudders awake with the ultimatum of Zhenbao still on his mind.

His brain had tricked him into thinking that the winds were still blowing. That the leaves were still flying off and fleeing like ghosts to a candle, their fall hues monotone in the dark. The river still bulging with torrents, ever hungry. The water had been ready to eat the men on both edges of the island, and good Lord, Ivan reflected, it had also been raining without mercy.

A perfect backdrop to the gloomy undertaking. Ivan had watched the Russian officer to his left cock his pistol, his fury nuclear, and aim it point blank at Yao’s heart. Like they could kill nations, like murder ever solved border disputes. Yet Ivan had understood, traitor that he was, the reason behind his officer’s insanity. He had grasped and adopted the Soviet revulsion towards China, in spite of their decades of fraternity.

 _Dishonesty_. The voice reverberates through his dreams.

* * *

“I hate you,” Ivan calls out right as he steps in front of the officer and pushes the firearm down, too proud to be the first one to offer pure amnesty. He will never back down from a fight, not under America’s omnipresent eyes.

Yao crosses his arms, but Ivan can’t really read his expression behind the storm. No implications of gratitude, however. Perhaps the act of moving a weapon out of your way was lost on you once you were immortal.

Though Yao maintains the impression of absolute indifference, at least at their distance, many of Yao’s troops and farmers are evidently uncomfortable and shivering. No surprise, the sky’s practically dumping buckets of ice water on them at this point. The grip on his bones tells the Russian that his own men are half frozen too.

Ivan’s smile slips in almost automatically, the default one that Yao has come to translate as “I don’t want you to know what I’m thinking.” 

“Don’t shoot,” Yao finally drawls to his own men, at least returning the favor. “That’s an order from the Chairman.”

“And the Premier,” nods Ivan to his own men. All sides seem confused by the hint of collusion, but Ivan’s simply glad he can act like he’s on Yao’s side again, no matter how brief. Humans tell him how they’ve always cherished goodbyes.

“You hate me, Ivan?” Yao goes on. “Still talking about things in terms of you and me?” _Look at you,_ Ivan can imagine him think condescendingly, _so young. Seeing things so personally._

But what they had had been personal; there was no doubt about that. There had been something between them that went beyond Russia and China, something dear yet of less enough importance that tonight, under the gloomy clouds and gray sky, they had both allowed it to efface itself away.

“You don’t understand. I truly don’t care about you anymore. It’s not my choice. I don’t make the choices.”

Yao narrows his eyes. “Stupid Ivan. Come here.”

Ivan obeys and bridges their rift. There’s a clatter of metal from the Russian soldiers, but their nation goes on, right until he can just manage to reach out and touch Yao, if he tries.

Yao steps forward too. Hands bury themselves in his scarf and push his shoulders down, the two now eye to eye. The soldiers are murmuring more than ever now, and Ivan can’t help but think, _what, you think we’ll kiss or something?_ Followed murkily by _yes, please._

“Sorry, China,” the Russian says as he grasps the other’s wrists. “I don’t control the compass of my own heart.”

“I see.” And Ivan wonders why is it now that Yao seems colder than ever.

Yao shoves him away, and Ivan is embarrassed to admit that the cold (or something else) has rendered him so weak that he stumbles back quite far. His peaked cap’s maladjusted now, and as he fixes it slowly, he can see Yao turn his back and motion to his men.

“We’re leaving!” Yao yells, “we’re all going home!”

“This is our home,” a farmer mumbles, but Yao only scowls, says something in Chinese about no houses on Zhenbao, and leaves his command as it is. He’s in an even worse mood now, Ivan thinks, regretfully.

“I apologize, Comrade,” Yao finally lets the farmer have. “But this matter will be settled officially.”

So the Chinese, quelled by the will of their nation, pack up and leave. Ivan sighs and waves his own men out, lest he worsen things. The sinking feeling in his gut, the strange tangency he’s made with remorse, they are not enough to compel him to call Yao’s name.

When he wakes up a decade into the future, all Ivan feels is bitterness, bitter over how he lost Yao over a stupid piece of land, though he supposes it was truthfully more complicated than that. So now Ivan is just bitter that he hurt him.

* * *

In 1979, Russia invades Afghanistan, to whose mujahideen rebels China, the West, and much of the Middle East begin to send aid.

It’s couldn’t get any more ironic, could it? The Red Empire of revolution sinking his knees into blood to crush a native insurgency. But it had been strategic, clearly. How that word had echoed down the halls of the Muscovite conference rooms: strategic, strategy, necessary. And it was not as if they were incorrect in their entirety. 

Ivan looks over the desert that he and the men of his battalion have driven over. Tire tracks have completely raked the landscape. Strangely enough, it reminded him of the bootprint he had left on his Premier’s desk in a rare fit of rage nearly a month ago, when Ivan had demanded that he be allowed to march to the front of the Soviet-Afghan war and see the war firsthand.

He would shamelessly admit that what he was really doing was running from responsibility, not to mention his feelings. Because if he had not control over the compass of his heart, he could at least retain his ability to veer the compass of his feet. 

Here, in the desert, you could get lost in the heat, let it envelop you as it closed in against your skin. There was a certain elegance to these valleys, a certain mystique found in its hostility to life and in its abundance of the wrong type of radiance. It was the beauty of absence, piety.

Ivan’s kidding. There was no grace beneath the bones and cadavers, but the color of the sand was nice.

* * *

“Have you heard of the Great Game?” 

His tank mate, Aleksander, whistles. “Have I ever.”

“It was an awfully fun time,” Ivan grins. “Me and my friend Arthur, running all over Central Asia.”

“Mmhmm,” nods Aleksander. _How far,_ wonders Ivan, vaguely amused, _can I push it?_

“We cut each other’s heads off about fifty times each, and I ate one of his spies alive. Doesn’t that sound entertaining?”

“Sure,” agrees Aleksander, rubbing his red-rim eyes slowly. Ivan’s sure Alex has started seeing him as a madman, when Alex suddenly asks, “What was the prize?”

“Prize?” It’s a good question, surprisingly. Ivan taps his fingers, gloved to the tip, against the console, before pointing to the map laid out flat. “A lot of things, one of them being Afghanistan.”

Aleksander raises an eyebrow in interest. “Really, Ivan? Then let’s continue the great Russian legacy and show these mines what we have.” 

“I am very Russian,” Ivan concedes.

The tank grinds Earth underneath, the scenery loud and banging. When their cannons are inevitably blown off, Ivan decides that he hadn’t chose to abscond from his political duty to end up in an even blander scene. He takes his shotgun, climbs, and pushes open the hatch, crying down one last time, almost jubilantly, “Watch me, Aleksander!”

The half-busted tank slides down an incline and rolls over a few of the fighters— who knows what allegiance?— uncontrollably. Ivan’s still shooting out on his own when Aleksander screams something like get out, and Ivan does not obey. 

Luckily for Ivan, their tank tripping and vaulting over has him thrown off naturally. Then there’s the sound of a muffled boom from within the tank, immediately followed by the sight of its hundreds of mouths bleeding black smoke. Aleksander must be dead.

 _Aleksander saved me, when I should have been the one saving him,_ Ivan reminds himself hazily, feeling the ground around him and realizing that his body’s hit rock. He feels the discomfort; it’s sharp and prodding, but it’s from the dead and wounded, not his nervous system.

It’s all dirty clouds and blood. He gets up easily, not even staggering. As long as the Soviet Union’s alive, he’ll be ready for more.

Still, the 40th army all falls apart, and he has the feeling that no matter how hard he tries to pick up the pieces, nothing in Afghanistan can be undone. 

* * *

In a time long gone, he and Yao were popping champagne bottles to the takeoff of the Soyuz 3. “You’ve outdone yourself, Cosmonaut,” Yao had laughed, reclining in the too-big chair and throwing his feet up. 

Their hotel arrangement had been simple; after all, the only requirement was a TV through which they could broadcast the launch.

He’s been cursed by the good times. That night, he had picked Yao up and spun him around like the two were opera stars, or satellites, orbiting each other endlessly in the sky. _Never to collide, or die._

That’s what the cynical part of him would have said behind the placant smile, had it been 1941. But he likes Yao’s touch; when the other was with him, only then were both his feet on the ground, and only grounded was he free, once and for all.

* * *

“Isn’t Soyuz a nickname your people have for you?”

Ivan snorts. “A nickname? That’s a cute way to put it.”

“That’s a cute nickname,” Yao retaliates. “Seriously.” He makes his point by reaching out and pinching the bridge of Ivan’s nose. 

“Don’t,” Ivan begins to warn, not up for another round of teasing. Yao only looks up at him lazily, wrist limp and letting the empty wine glass tilt haphazardly. Looking aside, he laughs again, unexpectedly.

“I do what I want, Cosmonaut. I am your scientist. I programmed your spacesuit to obey my every command.”

“So evil,” Ivan allows. “Are you drunk?”

“Me? 10,000 year old China getting drunk by a few glasses—“

“Bottles,” Ivan corrects, surprised he’s not the alcoholic for once. Zhukov taught Ivan to pick his battles, so he’ll let China double his age for now.

“—Few bottles of champagne? You young folk don’t know what _real_ bad decisions look like.” The Russian grabs Yao’s arm before he can pour himself more. Meanwhile, his other hand cups Yao’s face and makes him look Ivan in the eye.

“I’m drunk,” Yao confesses, seeming all innocent like it was a sudden discovery. “So drunk.”

Ivan can only chuckle at that. “Why? Normally you let me throw up in the sink first. Have I done something to forsake my privilege?”

“No, stupid. One must never throw up in the sink. I mean, yes. Not you I suppose but, hmm, let’s say Khrushchev. Our governments hate each other, Ivan. This is such a forbidden love.”

His heart just happens to skip a beat, though he knows from the slur in the Eastern nation’s voice and from his deviation from regular character that he wasn’t serious. Of course not.

Their conflict hadn’t been personal then, Ivan would later muse. How did they manage that?

“我的天,” Yao mutters, rubbing his forehead. “I really am going to throw up.”

Ivan offers the other an arm. “You can lean on me.” Closing his eyes, Yao takes his help, and the two of them make their way to the restroom.

He doesn’t actually throw up, but he sits there on the sink, swinging his feet gently by the dark wood as Ivan watches him. He’s talking now about how the good energy in this bathroom, probably from the incenses Ivan’s relegated as decorations, must be behind the improvement to his condition, but Ivan can’t hear him. Ivan’s face is warm, and his heartbeat’s made its way up to his ears.

Soyuz 3 jets off, joining the stars. He’s missed Yao’s touch— how could he let himself fall out of love? It was pure then, and perhaps more importantly, it had been enough.

Now Ivan wakes up to the mummies and the dunes, and closing his eyes fails to return him to his rêveries. He can feel it against his sternum, choking him under his scarf. He’s aware that he’s being crushed by his sins, and he knows that it has to stop.

* * *

_Love absolved me,_ Ivan thinks on the train to Tibet. China must be at that certain city; the KGB debriefed Ivan a while back that Yao had had some unfinished business there this year. 

_Love absolves things._ The trip is over twenty-four hours long, and every word he’s hoping he can say to Yao runs through his head and tortures him the whole expedition.

The trail of heme he leaves on the empty train resembles a scarlet snake. He stumbles right in front of the government building, before realizing that he no longer has the energy to get past security. People are staring, and someone must be calling the hospital, or the police. 

Ivan closes his eyes as he hears footsteps approaching. It’d been hell getting here; moreover, he isn’t ready to leave. So it had to have been him to save Ivan. He could read Ivan like a book; he was always Ivan’s hero.

“Sorry, Yao,” Ivan mumbles, collapsing forward, saved from blackout only by the lucky catch of the other. His eyes flicker open and he sees China —thank God— through his pale lashes. “I’m one of those,” he breathes, “who take up a lot of space but contribute nothing.”

Yao’s expression, at first empty, now twists, and he growls. With an easy shift of his arms, he lets Ivan fall, the Russian slipping from him like water, barely managing to break the fall.

“Get up, Ivan,” he says, face red and angry. “You may be a burden unto this world, but you will never be a burden unto me.”

* * *

China brings him to his apartment, instead of the government facility. It’s definitely because he’s thought this out better than Ivan has, who could be arrested for espionage, were anyone to find out who he was. 

It’s a small apartment, amazingly innocuous. Nothing on the outside except for a potted plant and a red Chinese knot, nothing on the inside except for wind chimes, a shoestand, and basic furniture. Apparently Yao doesn’t care that much about the aforementioned basic furniture, since he easily dumps Ivan onto the black (but nevertheless not cheap looking) couch, despite how heavily the other continues to bleed.

“Take off your coat.” Yao orders, putting his hands on his hips. He looks exasperated and surprisingly un-angry for a nation whose enemy has wound up bloody and crimson at his doorstep. Actually, now that Ivan thinks about it, Alfred would be quite overjoyed to encounter that scenario, but Yao makes more sense than the American.

Ivan shrugs off the heavy coat, exposing the ordinary Red Army uniform underneath. He hears Yao tsking as the Eastern nation moves the coat aside. “You joined the army?”

“I ditched the army,” corrects Ivan. Yao groans.

“You’re such an idiot, Ivan,” he mutters, though with no real irritation. “You’re as much of an idiot as your boss is. Now, where are you wounded?”

Ivan lets Yao clean the cuts on his legs and the back of his head, not feeling at home enough to contest the insult to Brezhnev. Staying silent, he watches Yao scrunch his face as he slides out a large fragment of shrapnel from Ivan’s thigh, before he vigorously scrubs the wound with alcohol. 

“Ow.” Yao echoes what Ivan’s thinking, though for Yao it’s because the shrapnel’s sliced through the fabric of one of his gloves. His blood drips close to Ivan’s wounds, and it would be somewhat decent imagery if it weren’t so unsanitary.

Ivan feels a twinge of guilt. “Sorry. I’ll remove the shrapnel myself.” But Yao shakes his head and gingerly sets the shard in the trash can. “It’s nothing.”

A moment of silence passes, and then Yao informs him, “I’m going to scold you now.”

Ivan laughs softly. “Go ahead, China.”

“I’m going to say something about the Vietnam War ending just five years ago.”

It’s not the first time someone’s made that connection. “I agree, mentioning something about Chairman Mao’s excellent, supreme, unbeatable guerilla tactics,” Ivan replies apologetically.

“Yes, I’m glad you agree. Perfect. Now wait here; I’ll get some bandages and tea.”

China does come back with the bandages and the tea, but he also returns with a plate of Western looking confections. Ivan raises an eyebrow. Were those… gummy hamburgers and rainbow-chipped cookies?

“These are from Kiku,” Yao explains. Ivan still looks confused, so Yao goes further: “Alfred gave those to him. Try one. They don’t taste half bad.”

“I’ll pass. What about those hamburgers?”

“Ah, the candies? Alfred gave those straight to me.” He says it like it’s no big deal, but it ticks Ivan off to know that they had gotten so close, even after the Korean War.

That’s why he looks away when Yao begins to wrap up his muscles with gauze. He knows that Yao will figure it out just from the look on his face, so he hides.

“Out of pure curiosity,” Yao wonders, “how long have you been at the front? I don’t remember all these scars.” To demonstrate his point, he drags his nail down a keloid on Ivan’s exposed side, eliciting a visible twitch from the other.

Ivan reflexively curls his toes. Thankfully the boots are there to save his pride. “A little less than a year.”

“I see. Better thus far than Alfred’s involvement in Vietnam.”

“America, America,” grumbles Ivan. “I don’t want to talk about America.”

Yao shoots him an annoyed glare and tugs the gauze hard, causing Ivan to yelp. “Don’t give me attitude in my own house. Maybe if you had let me finish, Ivan, you’d see that I was only bringing up Vietnam in this instance to mention how she’ll be coming to visit this very apartment in a week. And thus why you should learn to behave yourself.”

“How unnecessary,” mutters Ivan. “We’re talking, not writing speeches. There’s no need to segue into things.”

He gets an eye roll for that. “Some of us care about elegance.”

“You romantics,” Ivan accuses, but Yao does not protest.

* * *

Yao throws Ivan a towel and tells him to take a shower, then does his laundry. The train of unexpected generosity proceeds. He gives Ivan a guest room, cooks him dinner, and even eats it with him.

“This is all very kind of you, Yao.” He pokes the fried 馒头 with his chopsticks, deciding to eat it first to avoid the big pile of green beans.

“You’re welcome,” Yao accepts. “Now eat your vegetables.”

“Caught red handed.” 

“Eat them, you big child. You’re healing from an injury and you need nutrition.”

“There’s no evidence showing that an increased consumption of green beans improves the prognosis of lacerations and incisions,” Ivan replies, humored.

Yao snorts. “Heavens. Just eat the damn green beans.” Ivan grins back at him.

He doesn’t know why he’s opening up to Yao like this. In part, it must be because malevolence would be inappropriate, even with their history, in response to this hospitality. But it’s also because he just likes China. No plans by his Politburo to bomb Beijing could have changed that. 

What is he supposed to say to Yao, though? _I like you, Yao. Let’s be friends even though you’re funding the people I’m trying to kill. Let’s be friends even though I told you it was chemically impossible for me to love you after that ideological divide pitted our governments against each other._

None of that seems like it would lead anywhere good, so Ivan holds his tongue and eats the green beans.

After dinner, Yao and him share a bottle of vodka, and Yao all of a sudden breaks out into a lecture about how much of an old, old, outdated man Confucius is. It’s funny, Ivan thinks, hearing 老王 of all people ramble about the independence of the jeunesse. He tries hard to be more respectful, but he’s almost drunk and he can’t help it. Trying to cover his mouth, Ivan lets out a heartfelt laugh.

Yao’s oration slows into a stop, and the Eastern nation stares at Ivan like the Russian’s grown horns. When he finally looks away, his face has grown pink.

“This is why I’ve kept my distance,” Yao sighs.

* * *

He’s freezing to death. He must be.

Ivan shivers under his thick fur coat, the last of his big sister’s possessions that he still keeps. His legs have become so frozen that he’s begun to prefer sliding across the ice over walking.

He knows that he’s not the only one. The other travelers around him all braving this bitter road are also fleeing the Mongols, though their plight had the purpose of saving their lives. Ivan didn’t know what he should have been saving.

Ivan feels a hard jerk, then blinks as a hard gust of wind freezes his back. Someone’s ripped the coat right off him.

“Give that back!” It isn’t Ivan who shouts. Raising his neck, he sees the old country, China, grabbing a young woman by her collar, his coat now on the floor.

“Don’t take things that aren’t yours,” he snarls in Ivan’s language, and he’s beautiful, Ivan thinks. His clothes are crumpled, and his face is sunken from hunger, but he’s gorgeous. “I know the situation is desperate but we cannot start looting now!” 

An older man with a thick black beard steps. “I saw her take it from the boy,” he tells the people who’ve stopped to stare. “I testify.”

China gives him a nod. He releases the startled young woman and picks up the coat, grumbling something about his joints and the cold.

Ivan stays quiet even as China kneels before him, placing the coat back onto his shoulders. “Muscovy, huh?” China whispers. “Do you need me to carry you?”

“Are you proposing a military alliance?” Ivan manages at last, still shaking.

China ruffles his hair. “I forgot that you aren’t as young as you look. No, I mean physically carry you. Just through the worst of this snow.”

“I’m heavy,” Ivan points out blankly. “And you look like shit yourself.”

China wheezes; it’s too true of a statement for him to get mad at Ivan for saying it. “Such a rude, grumpy boy. Walk with me, then. I’ll teach you some of my magnificent jokes, and you won’t have to grimace like you hate everything.”

 _I never hated you,_ Ivan reflects in the present, as Yao helps him change his bandages. Their one evening together extends into two, then three and counting. Ivan retells Yao ancient jokes back him, since he’s well forgotten them, and they’re a hit.

* * *

The nightmares wake him up in cold sweat. They’re vivid; he can make brief choices or at least have the illusion of doing so, but for the most part he’s rewatching his own memories.

Neither does China sleep in peace. A week into Ivan’s stay, while he’s up in a bathrobe and brushing his teeth, Yao falls off his bed and wakes up sputtering.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck everything,” Yao declares, trying to shove the knotted sheets off his legs.

Ivan rinses his mouth as fast as he can. The awkward silence persists until Ivan’s spat all the toothpaste out, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “You okay, Yao?” he calls out, then feels stupid for doing so. As if he doesn’t know what it’s like.

“I’m fine.” The lights flicker on as Yao leans on the switch, his hands working to tie back his long hair. “It was just. You know.” Ivan looks at him owlishly. “Ugh. Never mind.”

“No,” Ivan insists. “You should tell me about it, if you can.”

The Eastern nation fixes him with an unreadable look, then opens his mouth to say something. But before he can get a word out, the phone rings sharply. Ivan stares at it in disbelief.

Yao picks up, naturally. “喂? 这是....” Ivan doesn’t hear the rest since Yao’s waved him to another room by then.

Now is the time to get dressed if he wants to, Ivan decides, so he slips back into his coat, having been cleaned enough to look passable. His Red Army uniform, on the other hand, was unsalvageable and thus substituted with one of the bigger Chinese tunics in Yao’s closet. 

He’s just managed to get his belt on when Yao enters, smiling. “Ah, Ivan, do you always close the blinds during daytime like I tell you too?”

“I never close them,” Ivan says honestly, before he can stop himself. “Since I don’t recall you instructing so.”

Yao closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose slowly. “Truly, fuck everything.”

Ivans frowns. He’s not completely clueless to what Yao’s question implies. “Chinese agents can recognize me? You train your intelligence to do that?”

“Yes. You don’t train yours?”

“Normally nations disguise themselves when they are where they aren’t supposed to be,” Ivan mutters.

“Dammit, Ivan.” The other nation paces to the window in agitation. “This situation is so stupid. They want me to bring you to Beijing ASAP. I told them to give me a week on top of the time it would take to get you there.”

Ivan rubs his neck. “Is that a week for me to get away?”

“No.” There’s a pause, and then Yao suddenly sounds cheerful. “It’s a week for both of us to take a trip to Vietnam.” 

Eyes widening in confusion, Ivan stares at the floor. “You’re helping me run away?”

“I’m running away with you,” Yao corrects.

Ivan can’t look at him. “I’m not letting you out of my sights. If I send you back to Afghanistan, you’re going to get caught. And the trouble you’re going to face if you end up in Beijing is much worse than whatever consequence I could ever receive for colluding with the enemy.”

A cost-benefit analysis. Ivan can get behind that reasoning, though he’s not sure Yao’s being completely honest when he says he can face his boss’ fury scotch-free.

Yao must have ascertained Ivan’s doubt, since he motions Ivan to lean forward before bringing his lips close to the Russian’s ear. “You’re a mess,” he whispers. “It’d be against my morals to let you get even worse.”

“How am I supposed to respond to that?” Ivan laughs. It’s funny, but his chest feels tight. It’s strange for Yao, who’s barely together himself, to call Ivan a mess. It’s also strange for Yao to— what, care? _Caring is fair game,_ or something of that nature, he remembers Beria of all people telling him once.

“So, is Vietnam going to sneak us on a plane?” Ivan wonders. She was coming to visit today after all, if he wasn’t mistaken.

Yao shrugs. “I can ask. She isn’t on a formal diplomatic mission or anything. I’ll just tell her we’re both taking a vacation of sorts, and she’ll have no reason to believe otherwise.”

* * *

She’s a pretty country. Ivan’s eyes trace from her wooden heels up to the back of her knees. Once upon a time, fire followed the same path as his gaze.

His boss must be furious, Ivan thinks, almost regretful, as the three of them land in Ho Chi Minh City. Vietnam is much further from Moscow than Afghanistan; still, this time he doesn’t feel like he’s fleeing.


	2. RED

He recalls China braiding Mongolia’s hair.

 _Isn’t China scary?_ That’s what his princes would ask him, too convinced from the Mongol conquest of the existence of the Yellow Peril. _You can’t trust the East, Muscovy. You can never let yourself become encircled like this again!_

Mongolia’s half asleep, having worked too long the previous day, but he’s still squinting his eyes, trying to get through the final report. Unless they’re at the heart of the battle, Mongolia himself keeps his hands blood-free, but every move of his body has Ivan panicking, as if he might suddenly lurge forward and slit Ivan’s throat. China too winces whenever Mongolia brushes his skin without warning. Mongolia only looks disappointed to see so.

China’s bony hands gather dark hair, taking care to avoid the colorful necklace around the other nation’s neck. Ivan thinks of how even a grand, rich country like China has been brought to his knees. Is the Yellow Peril as real as his princes say?

But China— _you can just call me Yao_ —Yao doesn’t seem like he would ever hurt Ivan, not with such severity. He doesn’t think he can hate the East. 

Though he won’t ignore his princes. He doesn’t despise the Orient, but he’s learned at a painful price of how dangerous it is. He will never again, Ivan vows, let himself be anything but in control of the world on the East.

Today he tries to keep that promise in conquering Afghanistan.

* * *

Ivan passes his first evening in Ho Chi Minh City alone with Yao, since Vietnam has a conference. At the heart of the city, he sticks out like a sore thumb in the sea of moving people, a Soviet in uniform. Yao tugs him by the elbow here and there so that they stay together, Ivan being easily distracted by the open markets.

“This place is as crowded as Kashgar,” Ivan comments, he and Yao both ducking into an alleyway restaurant. It’s relevantly empty, whether that’s for better or worse. Yao calls for a table for two in Vietnamese, and the both of them are soon seated by a waitress who tries her best not to stare too much.

She slides a bowl of noodles in front of each of them after a short wait. Ivan smiles warmly at her. He’s ready to play the role of touristic foreigner if it suits their situation, though Yao seems more apprehensive and less willing to enjoy himself. It’s a shame too, since the two of them don’t usually get to spend time together like this.

He runs his fingers over Yao’s knuckles, on the hand with which he isn’t eating. The Eastern nation raises his eyebrow, curious, but says nothing nor recedes his hand. Ivan supposes this means the water is warm enough for him to proceed with his question.

“You said I could never be a burden to you. What did you mean by that?”

“Ah.” Yao swishes the noodles with his chopsticks. “You’re still thinking about that?” Ivan nods.

“I meant that you shouldn’t worry about hurting me or anything. You’re clumsy and you tend to... knock over people, but I’m one of the nations who has the choice of associating with you face to face. So even if you do something dumb, I chose to risk being involved by accepting your company.” Yao’s coherency tapers off every so slightly at the end, and though it’s a convincing response, Ivan wonders if it’s a front more than anything.

“I don’t get it,” Ivan says.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not making sense.” Yao gives him a look that probably means _you’re pushing it._

Still, he humors the Russian, putting his chopsticks down and fixing his gaze on Ivan like he’s about to declare something. Indeed, he does. “What I mean, Braginsky, is that it’s difficult to be a burden to people who care about you.”

Ivan really gets a laugh out at that, shoulders shaking. “Don’t say something like that.” He would continue laughing, but then his throat catches on some emotion, and he feels like he can’t breath. He feels his eyes water, then the tears spill out over his cheeks.

Yao blinks. “You’re crying.”

“It’s probably just another lost battle near Kabul or something,” Ivan tries, voice disintegrating. 

But he can tell that Yao doesn’t believe him. He takes a napkin and leans over, but Ivan wipes his face with his sleeve before Yao does. There’s silence at their table as Yao watches Ivan sob into his hands, only managing to compose himself after a few minutes.

“Don’t say something like that out of the blue,” Ivan finally chuckles, his voice still shaky. “You really caught me off guard.”

“What did?” Yao asks softly.

“You said you still care about me.”

Yao huffs. He might be blushing a little, Ivan notes in wonder, accepting the napkin to wipe his nose. “I thought it was obvious that I missed you when I let you stay with me. For a week. And then I ran away with you! Meanwhile, you had no problem wearing my uniform even though we’re officially enemies. Heavens, Ivan.”

“Heavens,” Ivan agrees.

“This is the definition of obtuse,” Yao sighs. Then he fills his mouth with noodles like he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore.

“It’s cute how you’re embarrassed while I’m crying,” the Russian teases. Yao puts his head down on the table, pushing the bowl aside to make room.

“How do I undo a conversation,” he grumbles.

“Don’t. I’m glad you care about me. Thank you, Yao.”

Yao lifts his head, hair slightly disheveled, returning Ivan’s smile tiredly. If he’s noticed that Ivan couldn’t bring himself to say “I care about you too,” then he doesn’t say anything.

* * *

His thoughts retreat back to the Great Game. England was not the one who taught him to be cruel, but then they had certainly given each other quite the run. He thinks of death in Kabul, the slavers, the extermination of the Circassians. What was one more genocide, the collapse of one more nation, after another? There was no longer such a thing as good. Not for him.

So he had had no qualms about having as much fun as he could in their living arrangement, after China’s superiors had ordered the hesitant nation to move in with Braginsky by the end of the Second World War. He loved China more than ever in those years, stealing kisses shamelessly whenever the generals turned their backs to try to ease the feeling, like he was throwing wood into a fire thinking it would put it out.

He can barely remember China’s reaction at all; he probably almost never checked. But one night in 1951, he staggers home drunk, vodka bottle in one hand, box of cheap macarons in the other. At the top of their flight, China lets him in, scolding like a mother hen, hardly giving hint to any way in which Ivan’s actions could have stricken offense.

All is dizzy and hazy. Ivan tries to set the macarons on the table, but he can’t let himself let go of the bottle, and then both fall. The box of macarons topples onto the ground as he releases his grip on the bottle.

“Sorry, China,” he chokes out, feeling Yao’s eyes on him. He bends down and gathers a handful of glass, cradled by both open palms.

“Ivan,” Yao says softly. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Ivan says nothing in response, still staring. Yao raises an eyebrow and works his fingers between Ivan’s, before scrunching their hands together and forcing the shards into both their skins.

The pain hides China’s intentions like smoke. At least, that’s what China must be thinking. Ivan can guess no other reason for why China then initiates a kiss with Ivan, for the first time in the 20th century.

They aren’t always this weird. But the stranger times are the ones that refuse to leave him.

* * *

At night, they lay in beds covered by nice sheets of bamboo straw, Yao having informed Ivan that sleeping on such was better for your back.

“I have this… recurring nightmare,” mumbles Yao. “I suppose it’s really trying to haunt me.”

“Was this the one you never finished explaining? Back when we were in Tibet?”

“Yes.” Yao seems pleased by Ivan’s correct answer. “Are you still curious about it?”

“Always, if that’s what you want to hear.”

A shove. “What if I let you know that I wanted you to say no?”

“Then I would stay silent,” teases Ivan. “But really, take all the time you must.”

Yao shuts his eyes. “I’m not getting any younger.” That draws a laugh out of Ivan.

“No, seriously! That’s what this is about.”

“Sorry, sorry. Please go on.”

Crickets, horns, and beeps. It’s as if night had a sound. As he turns a small circular container of balm, Yao starts again. 

“He always kills me in different ways. Kiku, I mean. In my dreams, he’s a big, greedy glutton, and you think that would make him weak, but I’m always weaker. Sometimes I can see him eating me; other times, I just disappear. Like Prussia. Rome. Durrani. I don’t want to die, but you younger countries are crazy.”

“Do you imagine death to be scary?”

“I’m too old to be scared of anything. But I’m sure you know how awful it is seeing someone you love go.”

“Maybe that’s why we’re such cold people, all of us. We all see so many people go.”

 _You were quite cold to me in Zhenbao_ , Ivan thinks. _It’s a mask we’ve all learned to put on. I can’t stand to see you in it._

* * *

Firecrackers pop and pots bang in the market-lined streets of Ho Chi Minh city, to celebrate the coming of the Lunar New Year. Ivan and Yao slip through the crowd of the Tết festival, bundled in thick scarves and coats.

Not that it was really cold. Yao ducks under a curtain of red charms and past a candy booth, dragging his much more precautious companion by the sleeve. It endears Ivan to see Yao so excited about the smallest things: the candied fruits, the little cotton cats, the like.

It only really catches Ivan’s attention when Yao begins to speak with one of the vendors, a young lady with a tight bun. His own Vietnamese isn’t good enough to follow their conversation, and he puts his hands on Yao’s shoulders gently as to not lose him to the sea of people.

Yao and the lady continue to shout things at each other, their voices barely carried over the crowds, until the lady then grins and retreats behind some crates. Ivan gives Yao a curious look, and though the Eastern nation doesn’t look back at him, the gaiety in his expression is obvious.

She comes back with a man of similar age taking her arm, and speaks again to Yao, who replies with some sort of question. To Ivan’s relief, she tells him, “Yes, we speak Mandarin.”

Yao nods. “It’s just that my companion does not speak Vietnamese.” The two shopkeepers avert their attention to the Russian.

“Happy New Years,” Ivan greets. “Are you a couple?”

The lady chuckles. “No, he’s my brother.”

With faux injury, he nudges her with his arm. “Really? You should have told me when we were only engaged.”

“Dumb boy,” she scoffs, giving Yao his change.

“What’s being married like?” Ivan presses.

“Very pleasant.” Her hands move to her husband’s bicep, pulling him closer. “It’s just being in love.”

“I could do that,” Ivan muses, eliciting an approving look from the lady. Yao shoots him a look that translates approximately to “what are you saying?” 

Or, if you accounted for the affection evident on the Chinese man’s face: “what are you saying, _dear_?”

 _Dear, darling, моя любовь,_ the sweet looks his sisters would shoot him, the dripping wax reminding him of the time when his world was small enough to fit under candlelight. He really could do it: fall in love, get married, die holding a warm hand, fly out of Afghanistan and refuse to look back, never ever to return to the catacombs of the naive dreams dreamt without naivety, the graveyard of dead cities every foreign intruder left in their bloody wake and sleep.

Ivan asks the shopkeepers to bring him some more wares, sending them both temporarily away. Yao still has the Russian nation fixed with a slightly lost look, almost dreamy. He too must have lowered his defense in the absolute joy of the night. Leaning down, Ivan whispers to him, “I owe you one. I haven’t been the best to you as of late.”

Yao closes his eyes and shakes his head. “What is this about?”

“Do you love me?”

He expects Yao to shove him away. Instead, there is silence, until Yao finally opens his eyes again.

“Yes,” he confesses, lowly. Ivan doesn’t reply.

“Is that so shocking? I was sure you knew me well enough to know that I’m too selfish to humor my enemies, much less disobey my Premier for them.” Ivan still does not reply.

“Come on, Ivan,” Yao growls. “Say something.” He sounds so irritated that Ivan wants to cover his mouth— don’t be angry, he pleas inside his own head. _Don’t be cold again._

The crowds are still wild around them, stocked with the greatest variety of characters: old men rushing by at a ghastly speed, little girls and boys swinging paper lanterns, even a light haired man passing them by with a giant, journalistic camera. But none of that would matter if Yao turned his back now, for all was lonely without someone you could hold.

“Zhenbao was an ultimatum.” He tightens his grip around the other’s shoulders even more. “But not one that I proposed to you, rather to me. It was either letting myself love you or being your enemy. It could not be both. I... think I’ve come to realize now that neither of those things were within my power.”

“I see. You realize, Ivan, that you’ve always put up a greater front than I have.” It wasn’t a question.

Yao brushes Ivan’s hands off his shoulder, then turns around to face the Russian, their shoes knocking together. Ivan smiles at Yao hazily as the other sinks his fingers into his scarf, and pulls him down into a kiss.

Ivan rests his own hands on his comrade’s hips. Not even in the liberation of 1945 had he felt this sort of wonder. He had long forgotten it: the marvelous absence of original sin.

* * *

“America…? You are joking.”

Vietnam shakes her head. “No, he’s really in Ho Chi Minh City at the moment. He’s on a short diplomatic meeting. I can’t give you any explanation beyond that.”

“We understand,” China nods. “Still, it’s somewhat surprising. What a troublemaker that man is.”

“You guys are twice the troublemakers that he is, at this moment,” Vietnam snorts. “This awfully long, unprecedented vacation between two nations embroiled in proxy war you both put me up to.”

“Sorry,” Ivan coughs, turning a little pink. “Either way, is there a particular reason why you’re bringing this up to us?”

“Yeah, actually.” Vietnam leans against the door. “I told him you guys were here and he wants to see you.”

Ivan groaned. But something else nagged China’s mind. “You two make small talk?”

“Yes,” she huffs.

“How many Vietnamese immigrants could he possibly take in to make you like him again?” Yao mutters.

She looks at her shoes. “Please be quiet, Old Man. He’s in no hurry to make grudges and he’s the one who lost, so why should I?”

“I didn’t say anything about grudges. Do you guys go on walks together, go out to eat and stuff?”

“Like us, Yao?” pipes in Ivan, unhelpfully. Vietnam seems pleased that China only crosses his arms in response, probing her no more.

“Back to the subject… you don’t have to see him. He just told me to ask you two if you wanted to.”

“I would rather not see him,” Ivan says quickly. But then the doorbell rings.

“Ah.” Vietnam rubs her own cheek. “That must be Alfred.”

“You can’t be serious,” mutters Ivan.

“You and America are on first name basis? 哎哟.”

Vietnam backs away from the door. “I think I took too long on the way here and now he’s wondering where I am.”

“Don’t let him in. Please.” She gives Ivan an apologetic look, because she does.

Indeed it’s America who holds the unlocked door ajar, fingers tapping rhythmically against the mahogany. Ivan can’t say he’s missed the golden-haired boy, even if he makes a pretty sight. It barely matters how he’s beautiful; simply the way he carries himself is a dance.

“Hey, Communists,” America greets cheerfully, as if he knew China and the Soviet Union would be there, and Ivan’s eyebrow twitches in annoyance. He gives Vietnam a brief hug before looking at Yao, and then Ivan.

“Hello, America,” Ivan grits out, as China waves. “You had something to say to us?”

“I was simply wondering why Vietnam was taking so long,” he replies easily, confirming what she had told them. “But since I happened to run across you both here—”

“Ha, ha, happened to. Get to the point already.”

“Shut up, Ivan.” Vietnam sighs, and America shoots her an apologetic look. “Let’s talk. That’s the point.”

“What would you need to discuss with China and I right now?” He would feel it were there any major diplomatic crises; there were none. 

America exchanges a brief look with China. “Actually, I would prefer to speak with you alone right now, Ivan.”

The crumpling of his navy suit as America attempts to extract some object from his satchel vaguely distracts Ivan, to the extent that he almost does not register when America pulls out an expensive camera. A costly, _journalistic_ looking camera. Ivan’s face lights up to a cherry hue.

“Let’s talk outside, America.”

* * *

In the elevator America laughs, leaning his head back. “Wow. That was funny.”

“You’re so annoying,” Ivan grins back at him.

“That was very funny, Ivan,” the blond repeats, running a thumb down the Russian’s jaw.

Ivan seizes his wrist before it can retreat. “So what exactly did you take a picture of?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry, I have some sympathy. Who doesn’t make out behind their bosses’ backs? Besides, I’m China’s friend, you know.”

“I do know.” Ivan rubs his forehead in relief. “But my boss will kill me anyway, so I suppose it would not make too much of a difference. Why did you want to speak to me alone, then ?”

America shrugs. “Maybe I just wanted to remind you of something.”

“Are you going to threaten me?”

“No.” He looks to the side. It’s silent for a heartbeat.

“Don’t look so sad,” Ivan says lowly. “You’re the one who believes in kind and beautiful things. When you’re like that, it’s almost scary.”

“You flatter me.” Then America easily slips his arm from Ivan’s hold, smiling brightly. “I’m not sad, Ivan. I just came here to remind you that your time is up.”

“It’s not even my fault,” he continues. “That's the best part. It's all yours.”

Ivan laughs, but of course he’s bitter. He’s bitter knowing it’s the truth. “America, you’re awful. You’re terrible! You do the exact same things that I do—I won’t believe it if you say that my sins aren’t yours!” 

He hates it, all of it, he thinks as he cups the younger nation’s face. “Look at us, two anomalies. I liked you because you were like me; we weren’t like the others, we weren’t nation states. We were grand and we were born not from ethnicity but from _ideology_. Yet it seems that attempts to justify our crimes only make them worse, even if it made us, the criminals, purer. You’re an angel, America. When you left for Vietnam, you were trying to do what you thought to be the right thing, and I’m no different from you. But you’re so much like me that you’ve become my only real mirror, and looking at you I finally see that what we have both done is disgusting.”

“I know that it’s disgusting,” America replies. “That’s why I’m back here again.”

“Penitence?” The elevator had reached ground floor long ago.

“Good guess. I suppose you’re aware that you’re dying, then.”

“You would be, too.” It’s sickly, that crushing burden on his chest again.

“Sorry, Ivan.” Again, the boy sounds genuinely remorseful. “Believe it or not, I never wanted to see you die in Afghanistan.”

* * *

“This... is China?”

Zhukov nods, fingers rubbing the rim of his peaked cap as his nation kneels in front of the bloody body. He’s seated on a fine chair, ornate in the European style, and he’s still breathing and blinking, sticky red on his eyelashes. But his face is so caked with blood, his frame so tiny and weak, that Ivan can hardly believe it’s China who sits before him.

Ivan’s gloved fingers gently rake through China’s hair; he hears a hitch in the Eastern nation’s breath. 

“So this is the story behind the desperation in the Far East,” affirms the general grimly. “I’ll leave you two alone, if you’d like.”

“Please, sir.” So the two of them are at last in peace.

“I’m not fucking dead,” China wheezes, right before Ivan brings the flask of water to his lips.

“China. It’s nice to see you,” The Russian says softly. “Where’d you get this awfully nice chair?”

“Nice to see you too. Ally.” A cough. “Got it from Japan. Said it was right from the Rokumeikan.”

“I’ll have America return it to him, Comrade.” Ivan rips off part of China’s sleeve and wets it, before wiping the scarlet off his face.

“It’s no good. I keep getting bloody.” Still, China can fully open his eyes while his countenance is clean, and he follows Ivan with his eyes.

“So, the Rokumeikan,” Ivan continues, trying to keep China awake with small talk as he removes the ropes. “Did we not dance there once ourselves?”

“We did. Was mostly a formality.” His breathing sounds less and less wet. _Good. I’ll get him some food soon._

“I doubt it was just that for me. I always like dancing with you, even when we aren’t allies.”

“So friendly. Don’t pity me.”

China finally manages to move his fingers, now completely unbound. Ivan slowly helps him into a standing position, hand on the other’s chest, right over his heart. “I don’t pity you, Comrade. Salvation suits the proud. You yourself taught me that when you saved me.”

He’s the crutch when China staggers, attempting to make his way to the hall. “Do you remember? It was centuries ago. You couldn’t liberate us entirely, but you protected me. I was really endeared to you, 老王.”

“I remember it well,” China pants. “You were so cute back then. Now you’re too tall.” Ivan chuckles, which gets him a light swat from the older nation. 

“I wish you didn’t get so hot,” he goes on, his faint smile almost conniving. “I knew you when you were only a few hundred years old, so you’re causing a bit of a moral crisis within me.”

If it was to get the Russian to shut up, then he succeeded. Ears hot and stung by sudden embarrassment, Ivan almost runs into the wall. There’s some odd sentiment in his chest blooming, fanning out petals so large they could collapse atop themselves, pleasant feeling running uncontrollably, ridden with every single lovely and horrible emotion that came with the simple privilege of being someone another cared about.

* * *

The leaves still haven’t returned to the deciduous trees, nor has the sun come out yet. Leaning over the red flecked sink, Ivan ignores the sound of footsteps approaching.

Yao opens the door just as the water comes down, diluting the bowl into a rosy pink. Yao grabs Ivan by the back of his coat’s collar, forcing him to spin around.

“You’re vomiting blood,” he comments, eyebrows furrowed in clear worry.

“I’m leaving today, Yao.”

China blinks. “I guess it had to end someday. But at least let me fix you breakfast first.”

“I don’t need to stay with you anymore.”

“Excuse me?”

“Maybe you love me.” Ivan picks his nails. “We were living rather domestically, and it was nice, don’t you agree? But it’s cruel of me to stay with you when I’m looking for love, not loving somebody.”

At first he does nothing. After a moment, China reaches up, and pinches Ivan’s jaw hard enough to bruise, though his expression isn’t angry. “You are telling me right now, that you love the idea of being in love rather than me.”

“Yes. You said I tend to knock over people. I’m not very remorseful.” He moves his hand over the one China’s put over his face.

“I lied to you. It is nothing to feel bad about. Countries lie to each other all the time for gold, oil, we all know the list. Is love not just another natural resource? I think that’s what I...”

Ivan gets another coughing fit, this time ending up with a trail of half coagulating blood dripping out his mouth from the back of his throat. China simply watches him, but he begins to tap his foot.

“I’m not that surprised, Ivan. And if you predicted that it would hurt me but did it anyway—” he can almost hear Yao’s temper tearing through its constraints “—you would not be far off. But do what you wish. It’s not like I can force you to stay.”

It was supposed to alleviate his guilt, but the caving feeling in his heart only worsens. “Do you believe me?”

“What a question. Of course I will, unless you take it back.” Ivan doesn’t.

“Get out of here, Ivan.” _Is it over? Am I done with absolution? Has it been enough?_

“Get out!”

Ivan understands it at last, on the train home. He’s tired of pretending; torn for years pretending not to love Yao, only to— what? Pretend that he did when at last the other was in his arms? He doesn’t know what he’s feeling anymore, nor what part of him is real or if there even was a real for nations like him. His mind is all fog and he only draws blanks from all the millennia gone, all the eras he fought, bled, laughed, danced, sung, ate, dreamed, slept, wept alongside Yao. What was it all now, in the present, when the only question to haunt his mind was _why did I not love him in Vietnam?_ Why, and how could he not, he did not know, when in departure from the other all he felt was the crumbling of flowers, until nothing remained of the roses but red dust.


	3. GREEN

The wind carries sand around the dusty houses and distant turquoise-capped domes of Turkestan. Ivan tugs the reins of his camel, now on guard as a silhouette approaches. Had the figure not been singular, he might have sped back to the garrison: though he could easily outfight the Turcoman slavers, that did not mean he wanted to.

 _He could still be a daring robber_ , Ivan thinks lazily. Admittedly, the Russian could have been more subtle in his trek through Bukhara: silver art on the saddle, sun-bleeding aiguillette, polished heels, black riding boots, plus, he hadn’t even bothered to cover his hair.

On the contrary, the enigma born out the horizon wears a mask, pure white, like that of the Ottoman Empire’s, only it stretches over his whole face like a theatre mask. Indeed, they had all made quite a performance in the desert.

The mystery rider changes from a stroll to a gallop after giving his own camel a light kick in the side. Ivan notes how the turban on his head is of the Afghan type, which means he’s certainly come a long way. Soon he’s only meters from Ivan; sooner he’s trotting circles around the Russian, his apparent gaze fixed on the other.

“Good afternoon,” Ivan greets in Persian. “Care to introduce yourself?”

The rider slows to a halt right before him, their camels taking a brief sniff in the direction of one another. At first, silence reigns, leaving Ivan gripping his own reins tighter, unsure of what the enigma would do. The man raises palms gloved in white slowly towards his head, and then, in quick, elegant moves, he unfurls the turban with one hand, the cloth spinning free from his head like a wing, and lifts the mask off his face with the other.

“You don’t need an introduction from me, love,” England says with a thin smile.

Ivan chuckles, the beating of his heart surging, as England blinks, his iridescent eyes indifferent. Somehow the Englishman looks even worse for wear than he does. “That’s a nasty bruise under your chin. What happened, ми́лый?”

“Trying to act like you don’t know?”

“No, I’m just giving you an opportunity to tell it to me yourself. I don’t make assumptions, Kirkland.”

“I’m grateful, Braginsky. I’ll tell you then—” _He may as well be batting his eyelashes, he’s so pretty_ “—about the war I lost in Kabul.”

“How catastrophic,” Ivan replies, too pleased.

“Catastrophic’s a good word to describe it. Everything went to shit,” he drawls. Then the Englishman leans forward, dark circles evident under his eyes. “Kiss it better?” The Russian complies.

“You certainly put more effort into your disguise this time,” Ivan comments afterwards. “But the mask is a bit on the dramatic side, yes?”

Arthur snorts. “Last time I put on the skin dye and the fake mustache, you laughed your ass off.”

How Ivan has missed him, even more than he missed _them._ “Well, since you were so gracious to spare me from losing those bodily parts during this encounter, how about we take advantage of it in a tent back at my garrison?”

England laughs at that, but England always laughs. “Hell no. Not that I normally wouldn’t be up for it, but right now is not a particularly good time.” He looks off to those blue domed mosques grazing the skyline. “These days, it’s funny. I feel nothing.”

He’s not that surprised by the rebuttal, and he won’t let it sting. “Care to elaborate?”

Arthur waves him off, but does so anyway. “ I don’t know.” For not the last time on this board they play, he sounds truly weary. “Loss is romantic, Braginsky. But all it does is kill love.”

 _Or whatever we had_ is unspoken.

“It was the death of four thousand troops and twelve thousand civilian families. Did you hear about how one doctor came back? _One_ doctor riding back to India out of the sixteen thousand Brits and sepoys that surrendered not once, not twice, but over four times, on a miserable, mutilated pony, missing a chunk of his skull, with the rest of them hacked apart? What do I feel, but nothing?”

“When I was young, I did not feel nothing in times like those” Ivan says after a silence. There he is in Ivan’s head again, the dark haired man, long braid twirling amidst the frost, Ivan’s back pressed to his dark blue deel, singing bird songs. “All I felt was hate.”

“Hatred’s underrated,” England sighs.

The sun sets over the desert’s pious earth. Their shadows elongate strangely, but the shade they provide creeps up too late. Leaning on each other, idle, they watch it get dark together.

“Goodbye, old dear,” England tells him, honestly gloomy. “Maybe when my heart comes back, I’ll love you again.”

* * *

He’s singing songs that remind Ivan of the birds.

 _This has to be some kind of game_ , Muscovy thinks bitterly, as Mongolia sits the young nation on his lap, changing the bandages wrapped tight around his throat. It’s quiet in their tent except for the occasional crackling of the candle, and the rich tenor of the empire’s voice.

Sometimes he pauses. One time he asks Ivan, “You’re mad at me, aren’t you.”

 _Am I not supposed to be?_ But the boy holds his tongue. He’s learned much, with and from Mongolia.

“Muscovy. Excessive suffering was never my intention. You must be wondering why it happens then.” Another pause. “One day, you’ll learn that we don’t control ourselves, our emotions included.”

“Don’t lecture me like you’re my father,” Ivan spits out, too angry. 

If there’s a reaction, it must be on Mongolia’s out-of-sight face, for his movements remain consistent.

“I’m sorry. Does that help?”

“Do you want it to?”

“Would it surprise you if I did?” Ivan stays quiet, and Mongolia lets out a pent-up breath. “Never mind. Don’t think about it.”

He would always do things like this after the slaughters. Fire, arson. A visit to China, hot meals served on porcelain. Rapes, plunders. A visit to the Occident, a throne as a gift, affection. His princes being crushed under planks of wood as the conquerors dined atop. An excursion to his home, Mongolia asking Ivan if he wanted to try these funny sweets he’d found.

Ivan can’t believe it. _What he sincerely wants… is for me to accept his apology?_ He wants to choke Mongolia more than ever now. The Golden Horde devoured his country, and the only power Ivan has ever had over him was forgiveness. How could it come to be, for forgiveness to be such a sacred thing?

In 1717, Ivan asks God for repentance.

In 1917, the Bolsheviks tell him to stay out of church. Therefore, Ivan opts to ask someone else.

* * *

“Gilbert!” Ivan shouts with a grin, tossing a bottle of alcohol at the German. He almost misses. “Guess who’s back!”

Prussia laughs, catching it with one hand. “How badly did Brezhnev chew you out for, oh I don’t know, going completely MIA for _several months_?”

“Shh, that’s not what I’m here to talk about, and because I control the Ministry of Truth, I get to decide what we have a conversation about.” The Russian seats himself next to Prussia on the couch, taking his boots and cap off, hopeful to shake off the vertigo in his head.

“Your topics are always shit,” Gilbert complains.

“I want to talk about 1947.”

“Case in point.” But the white-haired man gives him a curious look, his interest piqued. “What about my dissolution, though?”

Ivan claps his hands together. “Very good. You understand what I’m talking about.” 

“Of course I do. Fucking worst year of my life. Even worse than 1945, 1932, and 1918. But not combined,” he says wistfully.

“It is good then, that we have never lived the year of 194519321918,” Ivan points out. Gilbert picks up a small pillow from the couch and hits his face with it.

“Jesus Christ. Your jokes are Ludwig-quality. That’s not a good thing, so please get to the point already.”

“Don’t say ‘Jesus Christ’,” Ivan teases. “This is a communist environment.”

“The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I’m going to down this bottle on the spot if you don’t hurry up.”

“All right, all right. Gilbert, tell me what dissolution feels like. Do hurry.” _What_? he hears a voice scolding himself. _Do you think Prussia is a doctor? Do you think he can diagnose this terrible feeling and somehow cure it like chemicals can cure human beings? Are you so childish to think_ — his vision is dimming now, so he forgets what he was thinking.

Ironically, it’s in the midst of Gilbert trying to explain, that Ivan keels over and faints.

* * *

In the aftermath of the war, Japan indeed gets his chair back. But not through America.

“Kiku,” Yao observes. “Look what’s happened to you.”

Kiku opens his eyes slowly, though they’re almost blood red. “China,” he rasps. “I can’t imagine why you’d be visiting me.”

Yao calmly slides the chair into the corner of the room, though it’s an obvious misfit. To begin with, none of the other furniture in this room happens to either ornate or Western. Moreover, the room is sterile and smells like bleach; the chair is dirty and stained brown.

“That’s… the one from the Rokumeikan, right?”

“You should remember,” Yao replies dryly. “You’re the one who brought it to China.”

“Ah. I do remember. The Rokumeikan. That was interesting.” He shuts his eyes again.

“By interesting, you mean?”

“Embarrassing. Completely embarrassing.” Japan coughs. “Kaoru was trying to make us just like the West, but they would never accept us anyway. All it did was make them laugh.”

“Isn’t that imperialism? You told me once, Kiku, that you had gotten into this whole game for their respect.” He sits in front of Japan, counting the leaves and branches on his kimono. It’s a pretty design, Yao observes dully.

“That was imperialism in the 1900s,” Kiku mutters. “Conquest while respecting Western boundaries. Not the 1930s. That was conquest… all for me. But you are right. I did want to be great. I wanted to be on their level. Then I wanted to be even more than that. I did not want to be weak like you.” His face visibly twitches in agitation. “I did not want them to step over me like they stepped over you.”

“That could be considered a childish reaction.” Yao digs his nails into his own palms. It’s not worthwhile though, getting angry for others. There were no alliances to last a lifetime but the one with yourself, even if emotional constructs were a different matter.

Japan says nothing. _What can be done with this boy_? Yao wonders with exhaustion

“In a few months, America will come and occupy your land. You will learn to let them step on you or have them destroy you.”

“You act like it’s easy,” Kiku hisses. “Not even the damn West can handle that kind of humiliation.”

“Did I say I liked being stepped on myself? It’s evidently humiliating! What a rare privilege it is that some countries have choices. But all of them, even you isolated islands, will learn someday that it was never about preserving both your dignity and your survival.”

“So that’s your secret then? Crawling on your knees, through the mud?”

“Everyone does, inevitably.” He twists the dark strands of his own hair between brittle nails, reflecting on the smell of annihilation in this room, and thinks, _what will it take now to survive another thousand years with you besides me, for better or worse, like you always were?_

“Learn to wait it out,” he tells Kiku. “What else can you do?”

* * *

“You haven’t come to see me in some time.”

America rubs his neck apologetically. “Sorry. But you know how it is. Congress in session this month, NATO conference that month. It’s hard to get away for even a week.”

She shakes her head, smiling just slightly. “Don’t be. But I have really missed you. It’s been a decade, give or take, since the last time you came to see me in person, right?”

“Yeah. That time was interesting: I remember China and the Soviet Union were both there.”

Vietnam rubs her wrist. She seems at a sudden loss for words.

“That’s right.” America checks his watch. “What time were they going to lower the flag from the Kremlin again?”

Later, when he’s writing the date down for his report back to Washington, Alfred scrawls, _December 26, 1991._

* * *

_Why did I not love him in Vietnam?_

Prussia sits at his bedside, filing his nails, bringing him water and whatever else he asks for. It was probably another minor spat with his brother that brought him back on the train to Moscow, but he refuses to talk about it.

The pillows and sheets are soft under his body. It’s not as if he’s bruised and battered or anything: there’s bleeding— in fact enough for there to be a bucket of red at the foot of his bed —but for the most part, he’s in one piece, which was almost contradictory to his current predicament. Maybe he had never truly owned the others to begin with. But he won’t think of them right now; he can’t let himself. The only dreams he can tolerate drift further East, through Turkestan to Manchuria to Beijing.

 _It must have began, at that memory I have, of him saving me in Tibet,_ Ivan thinks.

He had since long admitted to himself that he had never fallen out of love with Yao simply for the reason that their governments had said no. If love was just another a natural resource, then like all resources, its abundance and dearth was never decided by man.

The paradox was that he had stumbled to Yao that night in Tibet because he loved him, and that he would have leaped on the chance to confess how he had always only been hiding his feelings for the other, until the moment Yao had told him that he was no burden. When China had become salvation, Yao was forgotten.

 _But I think I’m becoming clean once more, if we can ever be._ Even his own voice echoing inside his head sounds muted and grainy, as the scarlet continues to seep out his body.

Red. It was a lovely but cruel color. He would let it leave, he would let it be wiped away. Red, a romantic color, but only under the blood lay his chance of finding his heart again.

When Prussia wakes up from his nap, he almost jumps, hand leaping up to covering his mouth, so startled by the terrible sight of the Soviet Union completely bled out, bucket well past overflowing. But what of it? Empires were bound to crumble now and then, and it had not even been a sudden thing. What of the fact that the last page had been flipped in the Soviet Union’s story?

* * *

“Come in,” Yao calls, over the sound of the running faucet, upon hearing his doorbell ring.

He’s washing the dishes when the door creaks open, slowly and unsurely. Yao’s not surprised by the presence, but by the timidity: Yongsoo did say he would drop by today.

“You should lock your door,” a low voice says when Yao turns the sink off, and he thinks, _that’s definitely not Yongsoo._

“Germany?” Yao tilts his head at the tall Westerner, who makes clacking steps with his dark boots. “What are you doing here?”

Ludwig rubs the back of his neck. “My apologies for not sending a notice. I’m not here for anything diplomatic, so I thought it’d be okay to drop by. I wanted to ask you a favor.”

“That’s fine. What do you need from me?”

The German almost hesitates to speak. “Could you come to Moscow with me? My brother… he’s there and he says he won’t come back to Berlin unless I bring you there with me.” Yao tries not to look as bewildered as he feels. “For whatever reason,” Ludwig adds in a mutter.

“I see,” Yao replies. “Your brother was a troublemaker even among Communists.”

“He has a lot of determination,” Ludwig says, almost defensively. It’s not a world-changing revelation, that no matter what, Germany will always admire his exasperating, manipulative, old European-type brother.

“I’ll go,” Yao tells him after a moment, and Ludwig’s shoulders slump a little in relief. “Thank you. I’ll make him apologize to you once we’re there.”

China snorts at that. “Don’t worry about it. Did you two get into a fight?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Please, let’s not.” 

Ludwig only spills the beans two days later, while the two of them get slightly drunk in a bar in Volgograd, just a few hours’ ride away from the Russian capital. The dim light casts a sepia tint over the table, and the dozen murmuring voices conversing in the backdrop staving off the loneliness of the silent ones. Yao tries not to get as intoxicated as Ludwig, but he fails, and before even an hour has passed he’s rocking his bar stool back and forth, his face and neck feeling warm.

“We only argue about stupid things, but we both know what it’s really about,” Ludwig explains, after China’s prompting. “We just want to yell at each other. Perhaps it’s ineffective, whatever it’s supposed to do.” He sighs. “It’s always over something stupid.”

The Eastern nation leans against his companion. “Do you want to hear about the fight I had with Ivan? It might make you feel better.”

“Yes.” Ludwig finishes his glass.

“Just like you and your brother, there was a sociopolitical reason for our resentment. Among many things, our Politburos hated each other’s guts. But at the end of the day, it feels like we despised one another over a few small pieces of land, and I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if I had ignored orders then like I did when I took him away to Vietnam.” He looks up at Germany. “I’m sure you feel as if you lost your brother over the most minute debacles too.”

“I do. But it seems like I can satisfy nothing of he wants,” Ludwig mutters. “He doesn’t want me to run away with him.”

“You’re certain?”

“I am,” Ludwig replies sharply. “He’s only a wild type in some ways. Cut out of steel in others.”

Yao closes his eyes, lashes fluttering shut. “Can’t wait to see what he and Ivan have made out of themselves.”

“That is,” Yao continues, but first his throat clots with something bittersweet. _That is, if Ivan’s still there._

* * *

It’s Gilbert who opens the door, letting out the acute smell of iron into the hallway. 

“Fitting?” he asks, and when neither Yao nor Ludwig respond for a moment, he retreats back inside the apartment, calling for them to come in.

“Thank you for bringing Ludwig,” Gilbert says, sitting down on the couch with a homely familiarity. Yao takes the seat to his left, while Ludwig just stands, hands in his coat pockets.

“Brother, do you want to return to Berlin yet?”

“No,” Prussia replies. Ludwig raises an eyebrow, and Gilbert looks aside. “Let’s go to Potsdam instead.” 

“All right.” _It really must be on and off for them_ , Yao thinks. _And it will continue to be, unless they talk it out._

Yao gets up, pushing a barely resistant Ludwig down into his place, and tells them, “Please sit here and continue your conversation. I want to check up on Ivan.” The brothers exchange an unreadable look; this is all Yao can do.

He takes a deep breath right before the shut door that has the strongest scent. Sometimes he asked himself what was the point of it all, why did he push himself only to reverse to the starting point again. It was unlike him: he who had scraped together all the broken temples and bones of his land to build up an immortal defense.

His fingers curl around the knob, hesitating, before he finally twists it and pushes it over.

The room is dusty, but otherwise clean. There’s no blood anywhere, much to Yao’s surprise, and he sees Ivan’s shadowy figure lying on the bed. The blankets and some pillows have somehow gotten on the floor, leaving the Russian to lie under nothing but his coat. It’s not the Soviet issued one either, just a regular one.  
Picking up the blankets as he goes along, Yao approaches Ivan slowly. Only when he’s a few feet away from the other is he noticed, and the Russian turns his head with visible effort. He’s not dismembered or battered to any severe extent; he simply seems tired.

“Привет, Китай.”

“Привет,” Yao echoes, before moving the blankets back onto the bed. “America produces good air freshener, you know.”

Ivan cracks a thin smile. “You are joking. So, have you forgiven me?”

“I don’t really know what to do with you at all,” Yao refutes, as he fetches the pillows too.

“That’s even kinder, then. Thank you.”

The nation of the Far East scowls. “You must be hungry. I will make you something.”

Ivan just laughs. “So kind of you, China. Tell me you’re staying.”

“I probably am. Gilbert’s going back home.”

“Gilbert doesn’t have a home,” the Russian reflects cheerfully, earning a light kick from Yao.

“The point is that you aren’t in any shape to be alone right now.”

“Don’t say that. You know well that company is a privilege. We’re all born fucking lonely.”

“We aren’t born at all. These are such human concepts you’re applying to us, Ivan,” Yao mutters. “But enough of that. Would you like 小笼包 for dinner?”

“Yes.” That’s all he says, but right as Yao begins to turn his back, he sits up, hand motioning at the other man. “Yao, one last thing.”

“What is it?” He stops looking at Ivan.

“Why do you keep doing this for me?”

 _So it really is unlike me._ He won’t let the Russian know that, though.

“Why? Because I pity you!” Then China slams the door, wanting to get the food ready.

* * *

After the other’s departure, Ivan watches the door in silence. He’s definitely feeling something now, but it’s a strange emotion. It’s almost embarrassment: he’s unsure how to explain himself at all now.

Everything has been calmer since last week. Many of the former Communist states had come to bid adieu to him for the last time, but his crimes rested heavily on the reunion; they did not forgive what he had done. He… he understood, though. Perhaps it was better that they express what they truly felt rather than dangle it over his head like some sword of morality.

It’s peaceful inside him, though he knows the troubles haven’t ended yet. Nevertheless, he’s no longer undead, tangled in his own spider web. He’s Braginsky again, and he’s regretful of the time he wasn’t.

Last of all, he’s shy to say that at the end of the spiraling hell that was the dissolution of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, all he wants is to again leave out flowers for Yao.

* * *

One day in 2000, China sits on a bench and smokes. They had just concluded another meeting of the current U.N. session.

It’s an ordinary New York day, for the most part. If he twists his fingers, the cigarette sways left and right, and he exhales gray fog in his laze. He’d been planning to get either a hot dog by the Egyptian vendor at the corner or some green-kart street falafel after the conference— hell, after that display Kiku had put on, he needed it —but the tobacco’s killed his appetite. So he sits, still within the U.N. compound, in the touristic outside area that features a Luxembourgish anti-war statue and overlooks a busy street, and he watches the American civilians pace by.

The U. N. compound is lined by dozens of flying standards, and its the flag of Russia that catches his eye. If he moves his eyes up the alphabet, he could find his own flag too. Good that it’s him who’s been recognized, he thinks wryly.

He’s still half-focused on the white, blue, and red, those Slavic colors, when someone taps his shoulder.

Yao turns around, blinks, then laughs lightly. “You’re doing better nowadays, Ivan.” _Visibly._

Russia grins at him, leaning over the bench slightly. “I am, thank you. Yes, that’s why these flowers aren’t plastic.” Accordingly, Ivan holds out a bouquet of daisies, their petals pure and cloudy, right before Yao’s nose. 

“Walmart flowers cost $3,” Yao scoffs.

“The damage to my pride would be priceless, Comrade.” Ivan shakes his head. “I grew these myself.”

Yao takes the bouquet, keeping them close to his nose, and pats the space next to him. “Sounds painful. Sit down with me.” Ivan does.

Even their stems seem pale. They really were a pretty type, and it elicited a kind of childish joy from the Eastern nation, gifts like these. He gently brushes them, their yellow pollen sticking to his fingertips. 

“Thank you, but why?” he murmurs.

“Hm. I might have a crush on you.”

“A… crush?”

“We haven’t talked for years, literally. I don’t know.” Ivan taps the armrest impatiently, his nails ringing the metal. “I’ve... never stopped thinking about you since the Second World War. I’m not the strong Soyuz anymore. But I think I’m much more hinged at the moment.”

He gently holds Yao’s chin, then retrieves the flowers with the other hand. Holding it up right in front of both their faces, he blocks the outside world out and their own in.

“May I?”

“Do so,” Yao breathes. “What do you think?”

Ivan pulls Yao’s jaw to his own. Obscured by the corollas, all is felt, not seen.

* * *

“You’re going to fall,” she calls.

“These damn trees,” Alfred wheezes, still trying to haul himself to the top branch.

“You were saying that in the 60s too,” Vietnam drones. She tries not to sound affectionate.

Alfred lets out a pained laugh. “I walked into that one. Fuck. I think I really am going to fall.”

A smile slips onto her face at last. “Go ahead. I’m down here; I’ll catch you.”

“So romantic. I just might take you up on that offer.” When his footing finally does fail, he seems not in the least startled.

America ends up in her arms, as she promised. “See?” she tells him. “It ended up all okay. Even if your suit is crumpled.” He beams.

“By the way,” he says, tracing the cranes on her áo dài. “I heard that China’s going to drop by your house this week.”

“With Russia,” she clarifies, and he waves dismissively.

“Those two are so on and off.”

“Superpowers, huh?”

“Let me be,” he complains. “I do the best I can.”

She carries him back to the road to the city. As they wait for the bus to come, they look up at the sky, or what’s left of it after it’s been filtered by the trees. They find the leaves of the deciduous species, in the wake of spring and rebirth, fully alive and green.

END.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ty for reading (/. U .)/
> 
> P. S. congrats if you noticed the vietcong meme


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